


i'm slipping into the lava

by davenpitts



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - No Powers, Awkwardness, F/M, Strippers & Strip Clubs, canon? idk her
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-07-28 10:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/davenpitts/pseuds/davenpitts
Summary: Violet was an entirely different person inside and out, on paper and in spirit. If her new name wasn’t proof enough, the fact that she was crushing on a stripper was. (AU)Playlist





	1. you've been working here all night long

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fourth time posting this. The first time I deleted it because I wasn't sure whether I wanted to go through with it, the second time was because the idea of writing a multichapter fic terrified me, and the third and most recent time was because something that happened in young justice (I refuse to mention it; I'm sure you all know what I'm talking about anyway) angered me so thoroughly that I wanted to cut ties with everything even remotely related to the series, Briolet included. The thing is, I can't let go of Briolet. I will continue to watch the show eventually, as apparently the writers actually pulled through for once in the most recent episode (season 3 episode 20 to be exact), but I won't continue watching until after I finish this fic though as I do not want any more canon bullshit interfering with my process of writing this, as I would very much like to finish it this time. I'm not as angry with young justice as I was when season 3 episode 18 was released, but I'm still ignoring canon as I write this. Now if you must excuse me, I need to reapply my clown makeup.  
Clown memes aside, I still continue to love Briolet even after the fuckery that was 3x18. No matter what happens to them in canon, I WILL finish this fic. Besides, this is an AU, which means Violet never cheated on Brion and never told him she was partly responsible for the death of his parents because his parents are very much alive in this fic. Hooray for AUs!  
Without further ado, here's chapter one!

Gabrielle Daou’s parents—hell, her entire family tree—would be livid that the hijabi was at a strip club, a venue frowned upon by the prudish and religious, the latter being her family. Luckily, she no longer lived under their room, which meant she could finally do all things her parents would’ve berated her for doing. Like masturbate. Or smoke weed. Or in this case, visit a strip club.

Granted, she had yet to touch herself, as she had yet to meet a man for whom she had a carnal desire, and she found the scent of marijuana an unpleasant one despite being accustomed to it, having smelled it more times than she could count in her university’s bathroom. And in her defense, she was only at a strip club because Artemis Crock, who doubled as Gabrielle’s best friend and the sister she never had, was having her bachelorette party at one. And in _Artemis’ _defense, she was only having her bachelorette party at a strip club because her soon-to-be husband, Wally West, swore he wouldn’t marry her unless she did. Naturally, Artemis, who had been in love with Wally for seven years and therefore had wanted to marry him for just as long, obliged. Gabrielle had never been in love, never even dated, for that matter, as her parents forbade such a thing, but she was certain that she, too, would do something she never thought she’d do if it meant she’d get to marry the man she loved.

Artemis, aware that Gabrielle had led a sheltered childhood and adolescence, had been hesitant about inviting her at first, until the hijabi assured her she wouldn’t mind stepping out of her comfort zone, if only for a night. Only this wasn’t a step, it was a leap, and a quantum one at that; Gabrielle was assured of this when a silk curtain parted to reveal five tall, well-toned men as fully clothed as she. They didn’t stay that way for very long, however, for the louder Artemis’ friends whopped, the more articles of clothing the men tore—literally—off. Eventually all they had on were flimsy G-strings that just barely obscured their genitals, and when they pivoted on their bare heels she saw that they just barely obscured their anuses, too.

Gabrielle started when ear-splitting electronic music sounded, then again when the strippers faced their cheering audience and proceeded to dance, although it wasn’t so much dancing as their barely obscured genitals bouncing to the beat of the song. Whatever else they did, Gabrielle hadn’t a clue, for she looked at the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but the stage, really. She felt as though by merely being there, she was defying not only her parents, but _Allah_ as well, as if her soul would be bound for _Jahannam_ if she stayed a minute more. She would call an Uber, tell Artemis the sushi they had devoured beforehand wasn’t agreeing with her, and be on her way. Before she could even unlock her phone, however, the music stopped, the lights brightened, and the strippers bowed in unison and exited the stage.

While the rest of the partygoers groaned drunkenly at the routine’s abrupt end, Gabrielle breathed a silent sigh of relief, only to breathe a not-so-silent one of frustration when the lights dimmed once more, and the music resumed. She forgot to breathe entirely when a sole, shirtless stripper clad in emerald green jeans that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else appeared onstage. While the previous strippers had been handsome, this one was impossibly so. When he yanked off his jeans, Gabrielle couldn’t help but admire the strawberry blonde happy trail that protruded from his G-string and matched the hair on his head and the sides of his chiseled face.

She also couldn’t help but notice he was nicely shaped. Then again, so were his predecessors, so either Gabrielle was genuinely attracted to this man or she was only taking note of his features because it was just him on stage. She hoped it was the latter—her parents would never allow her to date a non-Muslim, let alone a non-Muslim stripper.

“Good evening, ladies,” He said in a thick Eastern European accent that turned Gabrielle’s insides to jelly. Apparently, it had a similar effect on the other partygoers, for they pretended to swoon. She tried not to think too much of it—it was probably just for show, a part of his persona.

“I’m Hot Lava,” The man continued as he twirled his jeans before finally flinging them at Gabrielle. Whether he did so by chance or by accident was a mystery, but what wasn’t so mysterious was the way Artemis waggled her eyebrows at her. Gabrielle could only roll her eyes; she might find him attractive, but the odds of _him _finding _her _attractive were as improbable as her family approving of their relationship were they to be in one. So, zero.

“And I’ll make you melt!” He concluded, and when the partygoers cheered loud enough to shatter their wineglasses, Gabrielle couldn’t help herself—she cheered, too.

As she watched Hot Lava’s routine with great interest, something insider her changed, and it wasn’t until the lights went back on and he disappeared behind the curtain that she realized in what way exactly she had changed. She had undergone a transformation of sorts, and now she no longer cared what her parents would think, say, or even do in the event that she brought him along to an _Iftar_ or two. She cared even less about being rejected if she were to ask him out, which was what she was about to do. It was a shot in the dark, him agreeing to be hers, but it was a shot she was more than willing to take.

She grabbed Artemis’ drink and downed the rest of it for a confidence boost, not that it would’ve helped much, as it was wine, and a couple sip’s worth at that. Not that she even needed it, as the fact that she just drank alcohol clearly demonstrated she no longer gave a fuck about anything, including rejection and making a fool out of herself.

It was because Gabrielle no longer cared about these things that she made towards the backstage area. She was dimly aware of Artemis calling her name, of the throbbing of her heart, the beads of sweat on her olive forehead, the churn of her stomach. She had lost her confidence as suddenly as she had acquired it. However, before she could turn back, she walked directly into the now-clothed chest of the man who, until a few seconds ago, she had been so determined to meet.

“S-Sorry,” Gabrielle stammered, “I didn’t recognize you—”

“With clothes on?” He finished with a chuckle. Much to her chagrin, her heart fluttered at his accented voice; apparently it hadn’t been for show like she had thought.

“Yes—no—I mean, it’s so dark in here!”

“Yes, well, all places of this…caliber usually are.”

It occurred to Gabrielle that it was possible he refused to call his workplace a strip club, himself a stripper. “I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been to a…place of this caliber before.”

“I kind of figured,” He sighed. “Your friends over there, they forced you to come, no?”

“More like I forced myself,” Gabrielle admitted, her gaze fixed on the floor.

He tilted her chin upwards with his thumb, and for the second time that night, Gabrielle forgot how to breathe. With the rapidity at which their encounter was escalating, she was certain it wouldn’t be the last.

The color of his eyes reminded her vividly of honey when drizzled over _Balah El Sham _and _Qatayef. _At this moment her stomach rumbled; it had been a few hours since she had last eaten, after all. She supposed it would be a bit of a stretch to ask if he wanted to get ice cream with her. Perhaps she would another day, when they were more closely acquainted.

“Wanna know why I sought you out?” He asked. At first Gabrielle thought she hadn’t heard him correctly; this strip club wasn’t exactly the quietest building she had inhabited. A man as handsome as him couldn’t have possibly been looking for her. Even ugly men stepped aside when she passed them on the sidewalk or refused to ride the elevator with her even when she was the sole occupant. She oftentimes felt as though her hijab was a repellent, keeping away not only those of the opposite sex, but those of her own, also.

“It’s because this is my first time seeing a…you know, someone of your religion…”

“It’s okay, you can say ‘Muslim,’” She said. “Something tells me you won’t say it in a cruel tone.”

“This is my first time seeing a _Muslim,” _He said carefully, “Here. And no offense, but I know they’re not exactly the most open-minded when it comes to…”

“Sex?” Blurted Gabrielle, her cheeks flushing just as suddenly.

His cheeks did likewise. He didn’t look her in the eye when he replied, “Yes, that. In all fairness, neither are many Christians, Jews, Buddhists…anyway, during my performance, were you comfortable? I won’t be offended if you weren’t.”

Without thinking, she said, “To be honest, I regretted agreeing to come here at first, but that all changed the moment you appeared onstage.”

She expected him to raise an eyebrow. To smirk. To say “Oh, really?” in such a way that indicated he was aware of her attraction to him. To do all of these, even. Instead he scratched the back of his neck and said uncertainly “You’re sure?”

Gabrielle nodded so quickly her head spun. For a moment neither spoke, and it was during this moment that she realized she felt as at ease talking to this man as she would talking to Artemis, someone she had known for years.

“What’s your name?” She asked. “Your real one, I mean.”

“What, Hot Lava’s not real enough for you?” He laughed. He extended a hand, and she shook it. His hand dwarfed hers, which made sense, given he was two heads taller than her. Maybe even three. “It’s Brion. Brion Markov.”

“Gabrielle Daou.”

“Really? You don’t look like a Gabrielle.”

“What do I look like, then?”

“You look like a Violet.”

Their hands were still clasped together. Gabrielle couldn’t resist; she felt with her thumb the skin of his hand. It was unexpectedly soft. “How so?”

With some reluctance, he released her hand. He shrugged. “You give off a violet aura.”

“Oh, no.”

“What?”

“Don’t tell me you’re one of those hippies who believe in chakras and have incense sticks in every room of their apartment.” She didn’t find him any less attractive, of course. Had he been anyone else, she might have. He could reveal he wet his bed on the regular and she’d still want to make out with him.

“So what if I am? I’m not mocking your beliefs, am I?”

She shook her head.

“Then don’t mock mine.” No sooner had he said this than he erupted in laughter, clutching his stomach, exposed by his unbuttoned flannel shirt, all the while. Soon enough, Gabrielle laughed with him. It was at least a minute before they stopped.

Either Gabrielle was imagining things, or Brion had begun to develop a deep fascination for her lips. “I don’t have incense sticks in _every _room of my apartment.”

Gabrielle arched an eyebrow coquettishly. “Oh, really? Guess I’ll have to come over some time and see for myself.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, not knowing what had come over her. “I didn’t mean it like that, I—I—”

“It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean it that way,” He assured her. “Come to think of it, you’re the first woman to approach me for something other than…”

“Sex?”

“Yes. That.”

Sex _was _the reason she approached him, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. Not when she’d come this far.

He waited for the pink in his cheeks to disappear before unlocking his phone and handing it to her. “I’ll give you my number if you give me yours.”

Gabrielle was dimly aware of giving him her phone, of typing her name and number into his contacts list, of their fingers brushing when they traded phones a final time.

“You put ‘Hot Lava.’” She observed. Not only that, he had even added a fire emoji.

“Says the girl who put ‘Violet Harper!’ Where’d the Harper come from, anyway?”

“I…don’t know.” When she had typed it she was in a trancelike state. Only then did she remember everything, much like one instantly recalls the rest of a song upon hearing its opening lyric. Harper had been the name of the street she grew up on when her parents immigrated to America. Also, she had promised herself she’d change her last name to Harper once she turned eighteen, as she was sick and tired of people constantly mispronouncing Daou. “It’s a long story.”

Just then, one of the strippers that preceded Brion tapped him on the shoulder and said, “You’re on again in five, HL.” He smiled awkwardly at Gabrielle and left them alone.

Brion jerked his thumb in the direction which the other stripper had come. “I really gotta run. But you’ll call me? Or I’ll call you?”

“Those are the only two options, aren’t they?”

“I’m afraid they are,” He laughed, and Gabrielle turned her back to him before she could say something else she regretted.

When she found Artemis sitting in an apple red velvet chair, on her face was the same expression she had worn when Brion—then Hot Lava—flung his jeans at her.

“What?” Asked Gabrielle when a full minute had passed, and Artemis still hadn’t spoken.

“I take it you had a good time?” Artemis inquired. 

Gabrielle nodded. That was an understatement if she ever heard one.

* * *

Sleep would not come to Gabrielle later that night. She had lost track of how many times she had tossed and turned, fluffed and re-fluffed her pillow, and adjusted and readjusted her bedsheets. It was more so the thought of having Brion in her bed than the party her neighbor was having that was keeping her up. Also, their encounter played over and over in her head. She had tried every sleep inducer under the sun: chamomile tea, a warm bath…she even sang to herself a lullaby her mother used to sing to her on sleepless nights such as this.

It occurred to her that she hadn’t tried _every _sleep inducer under the sun. She had bought a vibrator when she had first bought her apartment three years ago, and it had remained in its box under her bed ever since. Until tonight.

She crawled out of her bed and felt for the box beneath it. Once she blew off the dust that had accumulated over the years, she climbed back into bed with her vibrator, the color of which, she noted sleepily, was a deep violet. She shakily removed her sleep shorts. It took her a while to find the power switch, even longer to build the courage to coax it between her legs, an eternity to at last slide it inside her. She gasped, pulled it out. Should she even be doing this?

She was about to return it to its box and kick it under her bed, where it would remain for another three years, when she decided that yes, she should. It was about time she stopped being the sheltered Muslim girl who feared she’d burn in _Jahannam _her entire afterlife if she so much as cussed.

Inserting the vibrator into her proved to be an easy task, so long as she imagined it was Brion inside her, Brion filling her body with a warmth the likes of which she had never experienced, Brion inching deeper and deeper into her, and when she climaxed at last, she imagined his body sinking against hers, his sideburns tickling her belly as he kissed her there, his tongue gliding across her thighs as he tasted the juices he had coaxed out of her.

Her last thought before she finally fell asleep was that one day she would get him to do all of this and then some.


	2. feel like a brand new person (but you make the same old mistakes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting chapter 2 on the same day because some people have been waiting months to read this. also, I wrote half of this, maybe even more, in a day. what can I say, coffee is a godsend.

Gabrielle Daou was no more. In her place was Violet Harper, a woman who feared nothing, least of all approaching a stripper and befriending him.

Legally changing her name hadn’t been as difficult as she imagined it’d be. The process itself had been neither time-consuming nor unpleasant; she was grateful she had been born in the 21st century, where changing one’s name was as simple as filling out a form on their state’s government website.

She had changed it before work, while she ate breakfast. It had taken her ten minutes in all—six to find the website, four to actually fill out the form. Once it was submitted, she began driving to work. Violet’s job was dull, as most office jobs are. A text from Brion would surely add some excitement to her otherwise uneventful workday. It was unlikely that he’d text her during her shift, however—if she worked all night like he did, she’d be asleep well past five.

It suddenly occurred to Violet that she could text him first. Just because Brion was a man didn’t mean he had to make the first move. Besides, she had been the one to approach him, not the other way around.

She whipped out her phone and sent him a message from beneath her desk like a teenager trying to not get caught texting her crush during class.

**Good morning :)**

It was during her lunchbreak when he responded, **Afternoon now. Lol**

She took a bite out of her sandwich with one hand and unlocked her phone with the other; there was no point in hiding it now.

**Sleep well?**

**As well as one with two roommates can. **

**Whoa. _Two _roommates?**

**Yeah. Wanna meet them? I told them all about you, I hope you don’t mind.**

Convinced she had been seeing things, Violet locked her phone, expecting the message to disappear by the time she unlocked it. Only it hadn’t.

Answering her texts was one thing, talking about her was another thing entirely. It was too good to be true—yet no amount of eye rubbing or locking and unlocking her phone would make the message vanish. A member of the opposite sex had told his friends about her in a non-discriminatory manner. Or what if he hadn’t, and was only leading her on?

No. Brion was better than that. He had to be.

Violet waited another few minutes before replying, **I don’t mind at all. And I’d love to meet them :)**

**My place at 7? I got tonight off, btw.**

He texted her his address; it turned out his apartment was within walking distance from hers.

**It’s a date, **she typed.

* * *

She was home by six. Ordinarily, she was starving by now, but today, her stomach churned at the mere thought of food. _I can’t just stare at the thin walls of my apartment for an hour, _she thought before heading to her bathroom. It wasn’t until she took out her makeup kit that she realized what exactly she was doing. While many Muslim parents allowed their daughters to regularly wear makeup, Violet’s let her wear on special occasions and special occasions only. Such special occasions included her high school and college graduations. By their logic, she would next wear it on her wedding day, an event that became less probable the older she got.

The makeup kit that was currently on her bathroom countertop was the same one she had used the day of her college graduation, two years ago. If makeup had an expiration date, she was certain that of hers had long since passed. Using old makeup would probably cause her face to break out or even swell, but she was short on time. Also, there was no way she was going out at this hour; her twenty-minute commute had lasted an hour today on account of all the traffic.

She applied the foundation the same way her mother had—carefully, as though each drop was dangerous. Which, according to Mrs. Daou, it was.

Next, she applied a touch of blush, hoping that by doing so, the artificial pink would obscure the natural pink of her cheeks each time she actually blushed. She reckoned she’d be doing a lot of that tonight.

Finished, she examined her handiwork in the mirror. Her makeup reflected her knowledge of it: minimal. Yet she both looked and felt like a brand-new person, and in a sense, she was. She had changed her name just this morning, after all.

Violet was an entirely different person inside and out, on paper and in spirit. If her new name wasn’t proof enough, the fact that she was crushing on a stripper was.

She looked at her phone; it was 6:45. Time to start heading over.

She gave herself one last look in the mirror before leaving her apartment and walking to his.

* * *

The man who had opened the door for her hadn’t been Brion, but a stout young man of Hispanic descent who had a knack for speaking in the third person.

“Brion Markov’s friend Gabrielle Daou has arrived,” He announced. He smiled warmly at Violet. “Fred Bugg is very pleased to meet Gabrielle Daou.”

Violet assumed the man in front of her was Fred Bugg. “Actually, it’s Violet Harper now.”

It was at this moment that Brion appeared. “Since when?” The shirt he was wearing today was buttoned, much to Violet’s relief. He was also wearing jeans that fit him a little too well. Probably one of his “work” pants.

“Since this morning.” Violet said, unable to avert her eyes from his pants.

“Why is Gab—Violet Harper staring at Brion Markov’s—”

“I would be wearing something less…_tight,” _Brion blurted before Fred could finish, “If it wasn’t laundry day.”

“Oh.” Violet had wanted to believe he’d worn such tight-fitting jeans to impress her.

Brion motioned for her to come inside. “Don’t just stand there, come in!”

Violet stepped over the threshold. The apartment was surprisingly clean for one inhabited by three young men. Cleaner than hers, even.

“Violet Harper appears to be fascinated by Brion Markov, Fred Bugg, and Victor Stone’s hive.” Remarked Fred.

Assuming he was referring to the apartment, Violet said, “Sorry. It’s just so…_clean.” _She looked around, expecting the third roommate to appear at the sound of his name like Brion had.

“Vic’s showering at the moment,” Brion told her. “He just got back from work. He’s a personal trainer, so as you can imagine, he gets pretty sweaty.”

“And smelly.” Fred added.

Sure enough, Violet could vaguely hear the telltale sound of water spraying onto bare skin. _Brion uses that same shower. _She pictured him standing beneath the showerhead, water trickling down his chest, his stomach, his—

“So what do you suggest we do?” She asked before her mind could wander even further.

Brion shrugged. “Watch movies, play video games, the sky’s the limit, really.”

Fred suddenly became, for lack of a better term, bug-eyed. “Can Violet Harper watch _Magic Mike _with Brion Markov, Fred Bugg, and Victor Stone?”

“Mother of God.” Brion swore.

“What’s wrong with _Magic Mike?” _Violet had never seen the movie; her parents had threatened to ground her if she snuck off with her friends to the theater to see it. It didn’t look that vulgar from the few commercials she’d seen of it. It was just about a male stripper—

_Oh._

Brion explained, “When I informed Fred and Vic of my…_profession, _the first thing they did was buy the _Magic Mike _DVD. After the three of us watched it, Vic declared we’d watch it whenever I invited over a woman who happened to know what I am.”

“But Fred Bugg, Brion Markov, and Victor Stone hadn’t watched _Magic Mike _since then because Brion Markov has never invited over a member of the opposite sex.”

“Oh.” Violet didn’t quite know what to make of this. Either Brion had never had a girlfriend (not since becoming roommates with Fred and Vic, anyway) or he had had many but never had any over. The latter was more likely; with his looks, he probably had a new girlfriend every month. Besides, Violet imagined it was hard to be…_intimate…_when you lived with two other people.

A muscular African-American man who could only be Vic emerged from the bathroom, fully clothed. Not that it mattered—he could’ve been buck naked and Violet would still be ogling Brion’s crotch out of the corner of her eye every other second. “We watching _Magic Mike?”_

“We are now.” Said Brion.

Vic shook Violet’s hand. “Hey, I’m—”

“Vic,” Violet finished. “I know.”

Their couch, as it turned out, could fit three people. Comfortably, anyway.

“We’ve been meaning to get an extra couch,” Explained Brion. “But money’s been tight lately.”

_Money’s not the only thing that’s tight, _Violet wanted to say. Instead, she said, “That’s ok.” Making ends meet was hard enough for a receptionist. Violet imagined it wasn’t any easier for a stripper, personal trainer, and…whatever Fred was. She was starting to think he didn’t work at all.

“I’d suggest grabbing a chair from the kitchen and bringing it over here, but I’m afraid we don’t have an extra chair, either.”

“That’s fine.”

This left Violet with two options, neither of them pleasant-sounding. Either she sat on Brion’s lap for two hours or sat wedged between him for just as long. Given how close-fitting his jeans were, the latter seemed like the smarter choice.

“I’m pretty skinny, so I should be able to fit. If you don’t mind being crammed together for two hours, that is.”

“We don’t mind at all,” Brion said, although he sounded as if he did. “Living in such a tiny apartment has made us…let’s just say…_accustomed_ to having little to no space.”

Violet’s apartment was larger than theirs. Only by a few square feet, but still—she couldn’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to share such a narrow apartment with two other people, day after day. She just might lose her mind.

Just when she was about to ask Brion if he ever had his own apartment, the previews began playing.

“Fred Bugg will make popcorn for Violet Harper, Brion Markov, and Victor Stone.” Fred declared before stepping into the kitchen, if you could call it a kitchen. Violet took a seat at the far end of the couch while there was still room. Brion sat beside her, careful not to bump his knee against hers. Vic sat at the opposite end and pulled out his phone, allowing Violet and Brion to talk amongst themselves.

“So,” Began Brion.

“So,” She echoed, wishing she had some alcohol in her system, if only an ounce. She wouldn’t even be here right now if not for the confidence the wine she drank last night had given her. “Hey, Fred,” she called out, “Got anything to drink?”

“Fred Bugg is presently not drinking anything.” He shouted back.

Vic sighed. “She meant what do we have to drink.”

“Fred Bugg, Brion Markov, and Victor Stone do not have much in their fridge in terms of beverages, but they do have beer, Red Bull, and milk. Violet Harper can drink water if none of these options sound appetizing.”

“I’ll take a beer,” Violet decided.

“I could go for a beer, too,” Vic added.

Brion raised an eyebrow at her. “I thought Muslims didn’t drink alcohol.”

Violet had heard this assumption often enough that she had a response memorized. “Many of us don’t, yes, but many of us do. It depends on how devoted to the faith one is. While I’m more devoted to Islam than most,” She tapped her hijab, “I drink alcohol, just not very often. I’d say I drink it once a month at most.” She conveniently left out the part about drinking it just last night.

“Now _that’s _willpower,” Vic remarked as he reached forward to grab a bottle from the six-pack Fred had placed on the coffee table.

Violet grabbed a bottle of her own and unscrewed the cap. She took a swig, suppressed a gag. She didn’t much care for beer, but it was the only alcohol they had, and she wasn’t about to sit dangerously close to Brion for two hours straight without a single drop of the stuff coursing through her veins.

Fred returned once more, this time with the popcorn, which he placed beside the beer. Perfect timing, apparently, as the movie started immediately after. Brion scooched over so Fred could sit down; he and Violet were less than an inch apart.

This would, without a doubt, be the longest two hours of her life.

* * *

“How’d you like it?” Brion asked the instant Channing Tatum’s name appeared against a black background.

Violet didn’t know what to think of the movie. In fact, she had hardly paid attention to it. Then again, it was hard to do so with Brion’s knee pressing against her thigh. Their close proximity had been especially bothersome during the movie’s multiple sex scenes, during which Violet had looked at her phone. Brion had done the same, which she found rather odd—he of all people should be plenty accustomed to such scenes. Sex was a part of his job, after all.

“It was…eye-opening.” She finally managed.

“How so?”

“It showed me what your job must be like.”

He opened his mouth as if to retort, then closed it when the doorbell rang. Violet tensed, thinking more men had arrived and she would in fact have to sit on Brion’s lap, until she recalled it was merely the pizza man Vic had called a half hour ago.

He rose from the couch to answer the door. Brion edged away from Violet as though she had a contagious disease. Violet was used to people edging away from her on the subway and in the deli line, so much so that she no longer noticed when they did. She knew Brion had because the spot on her thigh where his knee had been just seconds ago was suddenly cold. Also because he hadn’t moved away from her due to her religious beliefs.

Vic placed the pizza box between the empty popcorn bowl and the six-pack, which was now technically a two-pack. Violet grabbed one; hopefully another beer would make her tipsy enough to hold a conversation with Brion.

She had already drunk a third of it when he asked, “Wanna split that?”

She swallowed. “Sure.” Okay then, hopefully half a beer would do the trick. She took another sip before handing the bottle to Brion.

The four ate pizza (half pepperoni, half pineapple—Violet and Fred ate the latter half) and watched a movie on live TV, the name of which Violet had missed because the moment its title appeared on the screen it occurred to her that she and Brion had indirectly kissed.

Her arm shook as she reached for another piece of pizza. Why wasn’t the alcohol working, dammit? Oh, right, beer wasn’t exactly what one drank when they wanted to get tipsy.

As if reading her mind, Vic exclaimed, “Yo, I found a Jack Daniels in the back of the pantry!”

“I’ll have some.” Brion said.

Vic began pouring the caramel colored liquid into glasses. “You Europeans and your hard liquor.”

“Don’t be a xenophobe.” Brion said jokingly. He readily accepted the glass Vic offered him.

Violet didn’t wait for him to offer her a glass. She practically snatched it from his hands.

Vic laughed nervously. “Thirsty, are we?”

“You sure you can handle that?” Brion asked, a hint of concern in his voice. “It’s rather—”

Violet knocked back a quarter of her glass’ contents. This time there was no suppressing the gag that followed.

“Strong.”

“I can handle it.” She said, more to herself than to him. She sipped the whiskey, hoping that the smaller sips she took, the less she would taste it. If anything, its flavor was even more potent than when she had chugged it. She seemed to forget that sipping a beverage was akin to savoring it.

Her glass was empty within minutes. She poured herself another drink, giggling uncontrollably. She felt warm all over, like she had a fever. Brion placed a hand on her glass before she could bring it to her lips. “I don’t think you should drink anymore.”

Violet traced one of his sideburns with the tip of her finger. It wasn’t long before the color of his cheeks matched the light red of his hair. “Have I mentioned how sexy your accent is?” She slurred.

Brion flushed further.

“Violet Harper is definitely drunk.” Fred stated.

“Yeah, no shit.” Vic added.

Violet proceeded to do what a drunk person did when someone apprised them of their drunkenness: deny it.

“You are,” Insisted Brion. Violet moved to seize her glass, but Brion had beat her to it. He gathered the glasses and bottle and hid them. Where, Violet hadn’t a clue—one moment she was sitting upright (as upright as a drunk person can sit, anyway), the next she was lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling. At least, she _thought _it was the ceiling; the only other time her vision was this blurry was when she took out her contacts.

Her phone vibrated in her sweatshirt pocket. She remembered sliding her vibrator inside her last night, remembered visualizing it as Brion’s penis. She hiccupped.

“Uhhhh……” Vic said.

Violet tore her gaze from the ceiling and focused it instead on the three men. As blurry as her vision was, she could make out each man’s expression: Brion was even redder than when she had complimented his accent, Fred’s eyes were as wide as, well, a bug’s, and Vic looked like she must’ve had when she walked in on a half-naked Artemis and Wally.

_Shit. Did I just say that out loud?_

“Violet Harper did just say that out loud.” Answered Fred.

“Damn alcohol,” She grumbled before rolling onto her side just in time to vomit all over the carpet, darkness enveloping her just as suddenly.

* * *

She woke at an indeterminable time, in an unfamiliar bed. No sooner had she sat up than she grabbed the garbage can conveniently placed by the bedside and retched into it.

“You’re up.” Brion’s voice. _Fuck._

“Guess I am.” She said, or more accurately, croaked. She pulled the comforter over her head, wishing that by doing so, she would be whisked away to another place. Or better yet, another universe, one where she never announced to Brion and his friends that she’d masturbated while thinking of him. She was surprised she even remembered. Then again, how could she possibly ever forget the single most embarrassing moment of her life?

“I take it that was your first time being drunk.”

_Was? _She probably still was. She peeled the comforter from her forehead, which was dripping with sweat, and sat upright. Brion was sitting cross-legged on a pile of blankets he must’ve stacked together to form a makeshift sleeping bag, dressed in boxers and a ratty T-shirt. “How’d you know?”

She had been joking, yet he answered anyway. “First time drunks usually know better than to get drunk.”

Her vision was clear once more. She observed her surroundings. The color of the comforter was the same emerald as the G-string Brion had worn the night they met. Wait…was she in his bed?

“You’re in the guest room,” He said, as though he sensed her unease. “Me, Vic, and Fred, we all share a room.”

Not only did they share an apartment, they shared a _room, _too? Talk about cramped.

“Good to know,” She mumbled, referring, of course, to the fact that she wasn’t in his bed. Literally.

“You’re obviously attracted to me,” He said slowly, softly. “But you shouldn’t drink yourself sick just so you can feel comfortable enough to be around me. Just think of me as a friend, okay?”

“A friend...” She echoed, looking at her lap. She was still in the clothes she’d come here in. Not that Brion and his roommates wouldn’t have done anything to her while she was unconscious, but still—a girl could never be too cautious. It seemed like all they did was deposit her on this bed. And also maybe wipe the vomit from her chin.

“Yes. I’d like to be more than that, though.” He laughed, nervously ran a hand through his hair, which was mussed from sleep. “I guess you could say I’m attracted to you, too.”

She snapped her head in his direction. Big mistake. Her head spinning, she curled into a fetal position and clutched her stomach. Brion knelt beside the bed and lifted the bucket to her face. The stench that emanated from within didn’t seem to faze him. Or perhaps he was used to this, tending to girls who had drank more than their bodies could handle at the club.

“Are you sure?” She groaned. Violet had never considered herself attractive, and right now, she was anything but, with her smeared makeup, wisps of hair poking out of her hijab, and her vomit breath. If she wasn’t so dizzy, she’d think she was still asleep.

Realizing she wasn’t going to vomit, Brion lowered the bucket. His brown eyes bore into her own. “Positive.”

“Don’t you have…” She made a crude gesture with her hands. “With your…clients? Wouldn’t that be cheating?” In hindsight, she should’ve considered this sooner.

Brion abruptly stood up. He walked to the opposite side of the bed and sat down. Slowly, Violet sat up and faced him.

_“Magic Mike _wasn’t a very accurate portrayal of my job,” He began. “Not _my _job, anyway. You see, not every stripper is alike.”

It occurred to Violet that that was the first time he’d used that word.

“I don’t have…” That crude gesture again. “With my clients. They want to, but my contract prevents me from engaging in such…activities. Not that I’d want to, anyway—commitment’s more my thing, you know? Anyway, the movie makes stripping seem like this amazing job where you can get all the girls and booze you’ve ever dreamed of, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The pay is lousy, the hours are long—mother of God, are they long—and don’t even get me started on the brawls that ensue when a woman’s husband finds her watching men dance around a pole in thongs.”

Violet silently vowed to never ask him about the brawls.

He went on. “Not to mention, we’re treated like shit. Both by our boss and the patrons. They treat us like objects. Animals would be putting it too kindly. You didn’t treat me like an object, of course. Which is part of the reason I found myself drawn to you.”

“What are the other reasons?” Violet ventured.

“You’re pretty, for starters. Not artificially pretty, like most of my club’s patrons, but naturally pretty. Not to mention brave, and funny, and…well…exceptional.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.” They sat in silence for a while, smiling at each other like idiots. Though Violet didn’t feel very idiotic.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why don’t you quit?” She wondered some time later.

“This job is only temporary, thank God.” He answered. “It helps pay for college, which is also why I’ve stuck with this job as long as I have—I’m a full-time student, and there’s not many night jobs.”

“You’re in college?” Violet had been under the impression that he had dropped out, or never even enrolled.

“Yeah. I’m studying Earth science. I’ve always been fascinated by it. Volcanoes, especially.”

“That explains your stripper name.”

“You figured it out.”

There was a beat of silence before Violet said, “Hopefully you won’t have to strip for much longer.”

“I assume the answer is yes?” He asked, changing the subject.

“The answer to what?”

“To whether or not you’d like to be my girlfriend.”

Violet had never been anyone’s girlfriend before. “Yes. I mean, the answer is yes. I mean—”

She was rendered speechless when he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. The timing could not have been worse, apparently, because it was at that moment that she yawned. She got a whiff of her breath; it was rancid. She expected Brion to lurch backwards in disgust.

Only he hadn’t. Instead, his lips lingered on her forehead a moment more before he pulled away. “Goodnight, Violet.”

He returned to his makeshift sleeping bag on the floor. Violet pulled the comforter to her chin. The bed felt considerably colder without him in it.

Just when she was on the cusp of sleep, he whispered, “Hey, Violet?”

“Mhm?”

“Your accent's nice, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from tame impala's "new person, same old mistakes!" rihanna's cover of it (same ol' mistakes) is just as good, if not better!


	3. here come the dreams of you and me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not even 30 minutes ago, I was on the briolet tag on tumblr & saw that briolet is back and better than ever!!!!!! FUCK YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! guess this means i'll be catching up on young justice now, lmao. anyway, them figuring things out was perfect timing apparently, because here's chapter 3! I still don't trust the young justice writers tho lol.  
fyi there's some sexual content in this chapter but a). it's not what you think and b). it's not necessarily explicit. that's why I changed the rating to M. chapter title comes from the song "closer" by tegan and sara!  
anyway, please enjoy, and here's to briolet being back!!!! <3

Brion must’ve shed his T-shirt at some point in the night, because Violet awoke to him beside her in nothing but his boxers.

“Good morning,” He said too cheerily for someone up at seven A.M. He was lying sideways with his head propped in his palm, as if he’d been waiting for her to wake up. “Beautiful.”

“Morning,” She was uncharacteristically confident. Maybe she hadn’t barfed all the alcohol out of her system after all. “Handsome.”

He crawled on top of her and kissed her, on the lips this time. Not only did she have vomit breath, she had morning breath, too. Then again, so did he, which probably explained why he was still kissing her a minute later. Actually, Violet didn’t quite know how much time had passed. For all she knew, they could’ve been kissing for an hour.

It turned out all the romance novels she’d read had been right: time seemed to stop when you were kissing someone.

There was a bulge in his boxers. She couldn’t see it through her closed eyes, though she could most certainly feel it—it was digging into her pelvis and hard as a rock.

“Is that morning wood,” She purred. Wait—since when could she purr? “Or are you just happy to see me?”

He kissed her neck, his sideburns like sandpaper on her skin. “Depends on whether _you’re _happy to see me.”

She pulled her sweatshirt over her head and wriggled out of her jeans in response. Brion hungrily tugged off her panties and unhooked her bra. Either undergarment had the same lace trim and lilac color. Funny—she could have sworn they didn’t match. She didn’t even _own _a bra and panties that matched.

She yanked off his boxers and tossed them aside, but not before rolling him onto his back and straddling him. She was perilously close to his penis. For some reason it didn’t strike her as odd that they were about to have sex despite having their first kiss minutes ago.

He gripped her thighs, his fingernails leaving half-moons on her skin. Gradually, she lowered herself onto his penis. She was surprised it even fit.

Her breasts bounced in time to the rhythm at which she fucked him. His teeth clenched, he tugged at her hair with two hands. Funny—she had no recollection of removing her hijab.

Her pace quickened with every gasp, every moan, every hiss. Eventually it became so fast she feared she’d go flying forward and hit the headboard.

“Violet,” Brion moaned, “I’m gonna—”

Violet’s pace was impossibly fast by now. She, too, was on the verge of release; she could feel it.

“Violet,” He gasped, his nails digging into her back. “Violet…”

“Violet? You awake, Violet? Violet?”

Brion had been shaking her awake. For how long, she didn’t know, nor wanted to. Her groin felt like it was on fire. Just her luck that she’d have a wet dream when she wasn’t alone.

“I’m up.” She groaned. Never before in her life had she been gladder to have been born a girl.

“Okay, good,” Brion said, “Because according to your phone alarm, it’s time to get ready for work.”

She sat up, her head spinning. She was in no condition to work. She wondered if she’d be able to make it to her apartment without passing out, vomiting, or both. She’d prefer it if she did neither—she’d had her share of vomiting and passing out once had been plenty enough for her.

“I’d suggest taking a sick day,” Brion said, as if speaking from experience.

Violet was already calling her work. “Good idea.” She had never called in sick before. She hoped her boss wouldn’t find it odd that she was calling in sick on a Friday.

Brion slipped out of the room to give her privacy as she made her call. He returned a couple minutes later with a plate piled high with more food than she could ever eat. Unless it was for them to share…

“I know food’s the last thing you want right now,” He said. “But it’s what you need the most. Trust me.” He placed the plate on her lap, which mercifully was no longer hot with arousal. Being reminded she had work must have extinguished it.

So the food was all for her, then. “I can’t eat all this.”

Brion grabbed the rocking chair and brought it over to the side of the bed. Once seated, he pierced a piece of scrambled egg with a fork and raised it to her lips. “Are you sure about that?”

Begrudgingly, she took a bite. Then another, and another, until she grabbed the fork from him and began shoving food into her mouth herself.

“Not so fast.” He cautioned. She slowed down somewhat.

“It’s not fun, the first time.” He said after she’d demolished her pancakes and eggs. “I would say it gets easier, except it doesn’t.”

Violet popped a few blueberries into her mouth. “I have no intention of getting hungover ever again.”

“That’s good.” Brion said. “Means you’re not gonna become an alcoholic. You’re _not _gonna become an alcoholic, right?”

Violet laughed. “Of course not.” After a minute she asked, “How are you so good? With drunk people, I mean?”

Brion scratched the back of his neck. “It’s probably common knowledge, but the majority of my work’s patrons are either drunk upon arriving or upon leaving.”

_Duh. _She ate her food in silence so as to not say anything that would make her sound like an even bigger idiot. She suddenly remembered Wally and Artemis’ wedding was next weekend. Her untypically eventful past couple days had made her forget all about it. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

He snatched a strawberry from her plate; she swatted his wrist half playfully, half flirtatiously. “What’s the favor?”

“The blonde I was with the night we met, that was her bachelorette party. Her wedding’s next Saturday. I was planning to go alone, and I wouldn’t have minded going alone, but since we’re dating, do you think you could go with me? I imagine Saturdays are your busiest days, so I’d understand if you couldn’t make it. Like I said, I won’t mind going alone.”

“No, I can make it.” Brion said. “I could use a day off. Another one, I mean.”

“Make that two days.” Added Violet. “It’s in Hawaii, so I figured we’d go to the wedding—it’s an early one—and do some sightseeing after, then do some more on Sunday.”

His brown eyes widened at the word _Hawaii. _“It’s in _Hawaii? _Are you serious?”

What was so cool about Hawaii? It was a common destination for weddings, perhaps too common. Violet supposed it was _kind of _cool in that it had a culture all its own. That, and the volcanoes.

_Oh._

Brion was particularly fascinated by volcanoes, and he had just been told he’d be going to the volcano capital of the world. Of _course _he was excited.

“I can’t _not _go,” He said. “Now that I know we’re going to _Hawaii, _of all places.”

Violet had the sense that he’d never been there. Neither had she, but still—if anyone was the most likely to have visited Hawaii, it was Brion.

“I could kiss you right now.”

She pushed her empty plate aside and faced him, hoping she didn’t look as bad as she felt. “Then what are you waiting for?”

He blinked several times; Violet hadn’t expected herself to say such a thing either. Finally, after realizing she’d actually meant it, he stood up and moved towards her, lifting her up as if she weighed nothing at all. Holding her bridal style, he leaned in, she closed her eyes, and…

Vic barged in before their lips so much as brushed. “On my way to—fuck, sorry!”

Startled, Brion dropped Violet. Luckily, she landed on the soft, warm bed instead of the hard, cold floor.

Vic left as abruptly as he had arrived and shut the door, though he might as well have left it open—much like being reminded she had work had extinguished her desire, so had Vic’s barging in.

“Now that you’ve eaten,” Said Brion after what felt like an hour but was probably no more than a minute, “Let me take you home.”

This, Violet figured, would’ve sounded a lot more suggestive had it been nighttime. Had Brion been anyone else, she would’ve protested, insisted she could walk home herself. But she was itching to be alone with him, if only for a few minutes. Sure, they wouldn’t _actually _be alone, walking side by side on the city sidewalk, but they’d be more alone out there than in here, with two roommates on the other side of the wall.

“I’m walking Violet home.” Brion informed Fred on their way out. The shorter man was sitting on the couch and eating breakfast, a _SpongeBob _episode playing on TV. He looked away from it momentarily to say, “It was nice to meet Violet Harper.”

“Likewise.” Violet quickly said. She waited until they were in the stairwell to ask, “Does Fred work?”

“I figured it was obvious,” Brion began, “But he’s…how do I put it…not normal, mentally speaking. Psychically, he’s able to work, but mentally, not so much. He collects disability, which helps us out somewhat. He’s incapable of living alone. His parents kicked him out. Vic and I—used to be only us living here—found him in a cardboard box with nothing but the clothes on his back and a can of spare change.”

Violet should have known Fred wasn’t quite right. She shouldn’t have pried; this was obviously a tough subject for Brion. “I’m sorry.” She eventually managed.

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault. I’m just glad we found him before it was too late.”

They were in the lobby now. The doorman gave Violet a weird look. Brion took her hand and steered her away from him and towards the revolving door. Once outside, Violet breathed in the crisp, cool fall air. She felt better already.

“I have a favor to ask of you, too.” Said Brion. Their hands were still clasped. The passers-by were no different than the doorman in that they, too, eyed them oddly, as if they believed their stares would tear them apart. If anything, they made Brion tighten his grip on Violet’s hand.

“What is it?”

“I’d like to introduce you to my family,” He answered. “I’m sure they’d want to get to know the woman I’ll be travelling halfway across the country with a week from now. You know, make sure you’re not a serial killer or anything. Not that they would ever think you’d be a serial killer, of course. You know how parents are.”

She forced a laugh. “Do I ever.” She hadn’t planned to have their relationship—if that was what this was—be of the serious sort. She would stick around until she got him to have sex with her, then give him some half assed excuse as to why they could no longer be together. But meeting his family, his _parents—_it all felt pretty damn serious to her.

She stopped in front of her apartment complex, and so did he. She let go of his hand to fish through her purse for her keys.

“It won’t be this weekend, obviously,” He went on. “But definitely on a weekday. I was thinking Tuesday.”

“Tuesday,” She echoed, feeling as awful as she had felt earlier this morning. She took another lungful of autumn air; it did little to alleviate the sudden throbbing in her temples.

“You look pale,” He observed. “Do you need me to keep an eye on you?”

“I’m fine,” She lied. “I just need to lie down, is all. Probably just ate too much.”

“At least let me walk you to your apartment.” He offered, genuine concern in his voice. Violet found she couldn’t refuse.

She led him past the lobby and up three flights of stairs, until at last they were standing in front of her apartment.

“Call me if you need anything,” He said. “I don’t start work until 5.”

“I will.” She pecked his cheek halfheartedly before entering her apartment and closing the door.

She tossed her purse onto the table and changed into pajamas in her bedroom. She then looked through the peephole to make sure Brion wasn’t standing outside. When she realized he wasn’t, she returned to her bedroom and lied in bed, replaying her dream in her head in hopes that it would pick up where it left off when she fell asleep. But she never did.

She couldn’t sleep later that night, either, not when she knew he was wide awake, swirling around a pole while women whooped and tossed tens onto the stage and slipped twenties into the front of his thong. She didn’t fall asleep until he did, when the first flecks of sunlight began to shine through her curtains.

* * *

Funny how time always seemed to fly by when you least wanted it to.

Before Violet knew it, it was Tuesday, and Brion was driving her to his parents’ house. His parents, he explained on the way over, lived in a quaint little house in the suburbs, as did his younger sister, Tara.

“Perhaps now would be a good time to tell you that I have a twin brother.” He said.

Violet gulped. She had never been very good at distinguishing one twin from the other. Dozens of what ifs flooded her brain: what if she had been playing footsie during dinner with who she thought was Brion but had actually been his twin the entire time?

“We’re not identical,” Brion assured her, as though he sensed her discomfort. “So you don’t need to worry about mixing us up.”

Violet nervously readjusted her seatbelt. “Even if you were identical, I’d be able to tell you apart.”

Brion looked away from the road for a moment to glance at her. “How so?”

“Because you’d be the better looking one.”

He looked ahead again. Just in time, too, because no sooner had Violet said this than her cheeks reddened.

Brion coughed, as if by doing so, his own cheeks would revert to their natural color. “Thanks. Gregor would think otherwise, but thanks.”

Earlier he had asked her about her own family. She had divulged as little details as possible: her father was a psychologist, her mother an editor for their local newspaper (like Brion’s parents, they lived in the suburbs). She had three siblings, of which she was the oldest.

“Maybe I can meet them someday,” He had commented.

“Yeah,” She had said, praying he was too focused on driving to notice the lack of enthusiasm in her voice. “Maybe.”

They were now pulling into a gravel driveway. Violet had to open and close her eyes a few times to make sure she wasn’t seeing things; she had been living in the city so long she had forgotten they even existed.

The garage was a three door one, much bigger than the single door Violet’s apartment complex provided her with. They parked in front of it and stepped out of the car. She followed Brion to the front porch, gravel crunching beneath her feet as she walked. He rang the doorbell and stepped back. He glanced over at her. “Are you scared?”

“More like terrified.” She admitted. What if his parents weren’t accepting of interracial relationships, yet alone interreligious ones? Time and time again she had witnessed firsthand just how judgmental suburbanites could be. The city had its fair share of racists and Islamophobes, of course—they were everywhere, even where you least expected them to be—but the suburbs had far more. For all she knew, his parents shared the same close-minded mentality and would force her to eat pork and drink alcohol, which she would willingly drink—she needed it more than ever right now.

Brion took her hand. “They’re not prejudiced, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The more time she spent around him, the more she was convinced he used a mind reading device.

A tall man with graying brown hair and a blonde woman, both middle-aged and clearly a couple, opened the door. They noticed the younger couple’s clasped hands but didn’t narrow their eyes in disgust, much to Violet’s relief—and surprise.

“You must be Violet.” The woman said warmly. She, too, had a thick Eastern European accent. “Please, come inside.”

Brion released her hand as they stepped inside. The house smelled of pot roast and cinnamon-apple scented candles. In other words, it smelled like autumn.

“Tara, Violet’s here.” Mr. Markov called. Seconds later a young woman with short blond hair joined them in the kitchen. Judging by the bags beneath her eyes, she was a college student.

“What are you studying?” Violet asked.

“Geology.” She mumbled in response. It appeared earth sciences was a common interest the Markovs shared.

She grew more talkative as the evening progressed, most notably when Gregor arrived right as dinner was being served. Brion had been right—they didn’t look the slightest bit alike. The color of their hair and eyes didn’t match, nor was Gregor as handsome as his brother. Not that he wasn’t attractive—he shared half of Brion’s genes, after all—he merely wasn’t as good-looking as his marginally younger brother. Or perhaps Violet was biased.

“Do you know about my brother’s job?” Tara asked her after dinner, as they played a racing video game. Brion was helping his parents wash the dishes.

“Yes.” Violet answered truthfully.

“Does it bother you?”

Violet made a turn that was probably illegal in real life. “Not really. Does it bother you?”

“It did at first,” Said Tara. “But not so much anymore. You’re his first serious relationship, you know. As in, ‘first girl he introduced to his parents’ kind of serious.”

Violet didn’t quite know how to respond to this. Eventually she admitted, “He’s my first relationship. As in, ever.”

That had been an hour ago. Presently she and Brion were standing outside her apartment door. Violet’s anxiety had made an unwelcome reappearance: in movies, this was usually the part where the pair of lovers shared their first kiss.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want him to kiss her, it was that she feared she’d want their fling—that’s what it was to her, anyway—to turn into something more long-term if he did. She’d let him kiss her when they had sex, obviously, but until then, she’d turn her cheek whenever he tried to.

“Mind if I come inside?” He asked. “I’d like to see how it compares to mine.”

If that was his way of saying he wanted to have sex, it was an odd one. But Violet wasn’t about to complain.

She nodded, opened the door. He removed his shoes immediately upon entering. Violet felt guilty for not having done the same at his. She assumed men didn’t care about that stuff.

She proceeded to give him a tour of her apartment, because she wasn’t about to make the first move. Showing someone the room in which you pissed and shat was quite possibly the least sexy form of foreplay—if that was even what this was—but Violet would’ve recited 11th century poetry to him if it meant he’d be turned on.

She saved her bedroom for last. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the crush of his lips on hers, for his hands to fumble with the button of her jeans, but nothing happened.

Instead his eyes scanned the room much like one scans a dark movie theater for its exit. “You’d make a really good real estate agent.”

He didn’t sound—or look—the least bit aroused. Either her tour hadn’t worked, he genuinely wanted to see what her apartment looked like, or both. It was most likely both—an apartment tour wouldn’t even arouse a sex addict.

“I watch a lot of HGTV,” She half-lied. She watched it whenever she had spare time, which wasn’t very often.

Brion sat on the edge of her unmade bed. Violet hovered in the doorway a moment longer before sitting beside him.

“I heard you and Tara talking, earlier. She mentioned how you’re the first woman I’ve introduced to my parents.”

She considered asking him whether he’d heard her admit he was her first boyfriend, then realized that if he did, he’d say so.

He continued, “She wasn’t wrong. All the women I’ve dated, it’s like dating a stripper was something to cross off their bucket lists, or something to brag about to their friends or exes. They stuck with me until dating a stripper stopped being exciting, which on average was about a month. _I _stuck with _them _until they called it quits because I wanted to believe they’d realize there’s more to me than my profession, but none of them ever did. But you’re different. You like me for who I am rather than what I am. Which is why I introduced you to my family—you’re the first woman I’ve met who’s been worthy of meeting them.”

A magnetic force was pulling them closer together, it seemed. Violet was leaning forward without really noticing she was. She wanted to pull away but couldn’t; the pull was much too strong. She didn’t turn her cheek or duck her head when he finally kissed her. She let him.

Kissing, as it turned out, was a lot like swimming—even if you’d never swam before, you instinctively knew how to when you were in a body of water deeper than your toes could touch.

They were on a bed, alone, yet for some reason she didn’t feel like taking their kiss further. It wasn’t the right time, or place. Plus, she was starting to like—maybe even love—him for the man he was offstage as opposed to on.

They pulled apart, eventually. “It’s late,” He said, though it was only 9:30. “I should get going.”

Without meaning to, Violet yawned. She wondered why she’d done so—it was still fairly early, after all—then recalled she hadn’t had a proper night’s rest since the night before she met Brion.

He chuckled. “That’s my cue to leave.”

She followed Brion to the door and hugged him goodnight, fearing that if he kissed her again, she’d want more.

That night, she’d slept better than she had all week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spitfire wedding next chapter woooooooo!!!! we going to Hawaii!!!!! (not really, tho I wish :/ I need a vacation lol)


	4. maybe i just knew i had to wait for you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sweats nervously*  
so...uhh...about that outsiders finale...  
briolet is more than a ship to me. this ship helped me through my first semester of university as well as helped me through a rough patch in my life. this ship means the world to me, and the fact that the yj writers sunk it not once, but twice, is unforgiveable. so i'm back on my fuck yj bullshit. I think it'd be in my best interest to not watch season 4 so as to spare myself from further pain. the fact that in canon, violet wants nothing to do with brion (for the time being, anyway) is heart wrenching for me, and the fact that brion was being controlled doesn't help numb the pain. but just because canon is all "fuck briolet lives" doesn't mean I have to stop writing this fic; the reason I continued writing it was because I was pissed at the writers, and I'm going to finish writing it for the same reason.  
i have a heartwarming final author's note that i'll post at the end of the final chapter, so i'll say more then regarding this fic, briolet, and specific people that, if not for them, i might've never decided to continue writing this, much less finish. but in the meantime, here's chapter 4! :)

Violet Harper had never been a fan of airports.

Getting through customs is maddening as is, doubly so for Muslims. Even the nicest-seeming TSA officers tended to search Violet’s body more thoroughly than they had searched those of the white, Christian passengers.

But with Brion beside her, glaring daggers at anyone that looked at her with suspicion and loudly clearing his throat when the officer patting her down placed his hands uncomfortably close to her breasts, it wasn’t so bad.

_I could get used to this, _she thought as she watched the same officer conduct a body search on Brion, who visibly stiffened when the officer felt his groin.

Violet was suddenly very envious of the TSA officer.

“I’ll never get used to that,” Said Brion once they had fetched their suitcases from the conveyor belt.

Violet Harper had never been a fan of flying, either.

Whenever she had to go out of state for work or a family wedding, she would opt for driving—while she wouldn’t reach her destination as fast, it was certainly cheaper and less nerve-racking. She would have driven to Hawaii if not for the fact that it was in the Pacific.

But with Brion beside her, holding her hand while the plane took off and landed, she felt oddly relaxed. Safe, even.

If being in love meant feeling safe when normally you wouldn’t, then Violet was very much in love.

“Markov and Harper, two beds.” Brion replied when the woman at the front desk of their hotel asked for the type of room and the names they had booked it under. She handed Violet a keycard and winked. Or maybe it was just her imagination.

Except it hadn’t been—when they finally reached their room after climbing three flights of stairs, each of them carrying an exceptionally heavy suitcase (the elevator was out of service, of course), Violet had dropped hers on her toes upon realizing there was only one bed.

She heard a sickening _crunch_. Next came the pain, enormous and unending.

Brion swore in a language she didn’t recognize. Possibly it was his native tongue. He set aside his own suitcase, scooped up Violet bridal style, and carried her to the bed.

The _one _bed.

“Sorry,” He muttered before peeling off her socks. “Which foot?”

Violet wiggled her left foot and winced in pain. Perhaps it would have been smarter of her to point at it.

“Wiggle your toes,” Ordered Brion. “Try to, anyway.”

Her middle toe was the only one that hadn’t moved.

“We paid for two beds; we should speak to the lady at the front desk—”

“Forget about that,” Brion interrupted. “Getting you to a doctor is more important right now.”

“But—the wedding—” Violet risked a glance at her phone. The wedding started in three hours. They’d be lucky if they saw a doctor before then.

“We’ll make it in time.” Brion said. “And if we don’t, I’m sure your friends will understand.”

Violet was about to argue with him, until he gathered her up in his arms once more and found that she couldn’t.

After carrying her down three flights of stairs and through the lobby without dropping her once, he gingerly placed her in the passenger seat of their rental car, then buckled himself in and began to drive.

* * *

Their names were called within minutes, not hours.

The doctor assigned to them wore glasses and her hair in a low ponytail. “How did this happen?” She shared the same accent as Brion.

“What’s important isn’t how it happened,” Violet practically snapped, “What’s important is whether you can fix it.”

The tag attached to her lanyard read _Dr. Jace. _“I can’t fix it, per se,” Dr. Jace explained. “You’re a human, not a toy. But I _can_ tell whether it’s a break or a fracture.”

She ran an X-ray on Violet’s foot. She flinched when Brion’s phone suddenly rang; he politely excused himself and left the room to answer it.

“It’s a fracture.” The doctor concluded.

Violet examined the X-ray. If she squinted, she could make out a tiny piece of bone that was detached from her pinkie toe.

Dr. Jace wrapped the toe in a cast and recited a list of activities to refrain from engaging in for the next two to three weeks: dancing, swimming, hiking—everything she and Brion were supposed to do the next two days, basically.

“Are you together?” The doctor suddenly asked.

“Yes,” Violet said slowly. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business, though.”

Dr. Jace glanced at the door, as if she was expecting Brion to walk through it at any moment. It was possible she was. “It isn’t, you’re right, but…do you really think that’s a good idea? Dating a stripper?”

“I had my doubts at first, but…wait, how did you know—”

“I’ve been friends with the Markovs for years,” Explained Dr. Jace. “I’ve known Brion since he was a baby.”

Violet found the fact that this women knew Brion all his life rather unsettling. The possibility of the doctor showing her embarrassing baby pictures of him was highly unlikely.

“So?” Asked Violet. There was an edge to her voice now. “What does that have to do with me dating him?”

The doctor threw up her hands. “Nothing!” She lowered them and placed one on Violet’s knee. “What I mean is, Brion meets a lot of women in his…line of work. Young women. Attractive women. Not that you’re not young or attractive, but—”

Violet batted the doctor’s hand away and snarled, “Oh, I get it. It’s because I’m Muslim, isn’t it?”

“No, no, not at all!” Dr. Jace exclaimed. Her hands were raised again, only this time she was frantically waving them. “It’s not that, it’s…look, I’ve known Brion long enough to know that he’ll tire of you the moment he meets someone else.” She placed a hand on Violet’s knee again. “Serious relationships aren’t his thing. Why do you think he became a stripper?”

“For the money…” Violet started to say, but it was more than that, wasn’t it? Tara _had _said Violet was his first serious girlfriend. She recalled their conversation from a few nights ago: _The women I’ve dated, it’s like dating a stripper was something to cross off their bucket lists. _What if their relationship was nothing more than an item to cross off his own bucket list? It was only a matter of time before he realized serious relationships weren’t for him and discarded her as though she were a loaf of moldy bread that had been sitting in his pantry for too long.

Wait. Did this woman even know him at all? She and Brion appeared to be from the same country, but that didn’t mean anything. They could have never even met.

“I’m just trying to warn you beforehand, so it hurts less when he finds someone else.” Violet would’ve preferred she’d used the word _if._

The door opened. “Sorry,” Brion said, “Fred and Vic wanted to know if we made it to the hotel all right. I didn’t tell them we’re in the hospital, I don’t want them to worry.” He pulled up a chair, gave Violet a Pepsi, and asked the doctor, “How have you been, Helga?”

Him knowing her first name didn’t mean anything, either. He probably just saw it on the framed medical school diploma she had hanging on the wall behind her.

That was ridiculous—even if a patient or visitor knew a doctor’s first name, they always referred to them by their last name.

Unless they knew the doctor personally.

Violet couldn’t hear their conversation. Actually, she couldn’t hear anything except the pounding in her head. Each time Brion mouthed something at her, all she could do was nod.

“Violet? You okay?” He asked. Apparently she could hear now.

“Fine,” She lied.

“You don’t look so good. Are you sure you’re up to the wedding?”

“Who’s getting married?” Asked Dr. Jace. 

“Friends of hers.” Replied Brion.

The doctor looked Violet in the eye; she refused to meet her gaze. “Don’t get too crazy at the reception, now.”

“I know,” Violet said to the floor.

“Or afterwards.”

Violet choked violently on her Pepsi.

* * *

If Brion looked stunning in plainclothes, he looked absolutely ravishing in a suit.

He didn’t seem to think so, though. “You think I’m overdressed?” He asked, tugging at his tie for the billionth time; it was jet black and complemented the emerald green of his suit.

“Not at all,” Violet answered. As for her, she was clad in a deep purple maxi dress and black flats. It had taken them, in total, fifteen minutes to get ready. While being Muslim had its flaws, it also had its perks, perhaps the biggest one being that girls didn’t have to spend hours coiffing their hair. Violet’s was hidden underneath an elegant hijab she only wore to special events such as this. She considered wearing a cotton one instead, then decided against it—this was her best friend’s wedding, the least she could do was wear an itchy hijab for several hours.

Brion had been shaving when she emerged from the bathroom in her dress. He nicked himself upon seeing her reflection in the mirror. A trail of blood trickled down his jaw; she blotted it with a tissue before it could stain his suit.

For several minutes she kept the tissue pressed to the cut. The last time they were this close they had kissed. Violet was refusing to meet his gaze for this reason. Despite her best efforts, Dr. Jace’s words played over and over in her head like a mantra—_I’ve known Brion long enough to know that he’ll tire of you the moment he meets someone else. _The doctor knew Brion much longer than Violet had, knew more about him than she probably ever would. What if she had been right?

She couldn’t avoid looking at him forever, though. She lifted her head eventually, and when she did she saw that he had been looking at her.

“Do I have anything on face?” She asked. Perhaps her makeup wasn’t blended thoroughly enough.

She was about to run to the bathroom to fix it when Brion said, “It’s not that. You—you look beautiful.”

At the time, Violet had thought he’d meant it, but now, she wasn’t so sure.

The ceremony had been beautiful, and when Artemis and Wally shared their first kiss as husband and wife, Violet couldn’t help but tear up a little. The reception had started three hours ago and didn’t appear as though it’d be winding down anytime soon. There’d been a slow song, during which Violet stepped on Brion’s toes more times than she could count. All the while, she could feel people staring at them, hear them whispering to one another. Wondering what such judgmental people were even doing at Artemis’ wedding, she told her friend about it afterwards.

That had been her first mistake of the evening, leaving Brion alone on the dancefloor.

Wally and Artemis were taking a break from dancing and seated at the area of the table reserved for newlyweds, the former on his sixth piece of wedding cake.

“I know exactly who they are.” Artemis said when Violet had explained her predicament. “I’ll ask them to leave straight away.”

“Straight away?!” Echoed Wally. “Wow, Babe, didn’t know you started using Professor Speak in everyday conversation.”

“I only use ‘Professor Speak’ in serious situations, and this is one of them.” Artemis lovingly grumbled before confronting a group of women and pushing them in the direction of the exit. Not one put up a fight—then again, they were probably much too drunk to realize they were being kicked out.

The thing about solving a problem, however, was that another seemed to always present itself not long after.

A different group of women appeared on the dance floor and surrounded Brion in such a way that he couldn’t escape even if he wanted to and judging by how much he was talking with them and how often he was laughing, he didn’t want to.

Seeing as how it’d be rude to interrupt them, Violet pretended to be busy with her phone at her table, sneaking the occasional glance at Brion and his groupies.

That’s what they seemed like to Violet, anyway; she’d learned from the few snippets of conversation she’d caught that they were familiar with his “work” and had watched over and over again videos of his routine that the club’s patrons must’ve unlawfully uploaded to YouTube.

“You look much better in person!” Violet heard one exclaim. “No offense, but those grainy videos of you did nothing for your ass.”

“Fuckin’ Androids.” Said another. With an acrylic-nailed finger, she traced a trail that began in the center of Brion’s chest and ended an inch below his lips. “You know, it’s been our dream to watch you perform in person. You’d make us the happiest girls in the world if you danced right here, right now.”

“I think you know what type of dancing we’re referring to,” Another added with a wink.

Before Violet could make sense of what was happening, the women dragged Brion to the middle of the dance floor, where he danced, well, like a stripper, rolling his pelvis and shimmying his hips while the women whooped and hollered. Violet half-expected him to tear off his suit to give them a more authentic experience, and apparently the women wanted him to do just that.

“Strippers don’t dress fully clothed! That’s why they’re called strippers!” One shouted.

“Strip! Strip! Strip!” Chanted another.

Brion stopped dancing to explain, “Sorry, ladies, but I shouldn’t strip here. There’s a child here.”

The child he was referring to was Artemis’ niece, Lian. While Artemis was the big sister Violet never had, Lian was the little sister she never had.

“Yeah, only one.” One scoffed.

The woman who’d traced a trail from his chest to his chin traced another that began at his stomach and ended near his crotch. “Don’t worry,” She purred. “We’ll get you out of those clothes, if you catch my drift…”

Brion batted her hand away as though it was a bothersome insect. “I’m afraid my heart belongs to someone else.”

“Who, the Arab watching us?” She used the term _Arab _derogatorily, twisting her slender neck to glare at Violet. She looked away just in time.

“She’s not Arabic,” Brion said, “And yes. Now will you please leave me—”

The woman put a finger to his lips, silencing him. “You’ve been dating her for what, a month? A few months?”

Brion pushed her finger away. “Only a little over a week.”

“Still, that’s a long time to go without sex.”

He stepped back. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t know much about Muslims, but they wait until marriage, right? You know, to do it.”

“Uh…”

“Now I dunno if you’re gonna marry her or _when _you’re gonna marry her, but I _do _know that by the time you do, you’re gonna be desperate as _fuck _to, well, fuck. Jacking off won’t do shit, by the way. Trust me, my ex was a Christian.”

Brion turned to leave but was again surrounded by the group of women. The presumed leader pressed her ass flush against his crotch and began to grind on him. Gripping his wrists, she forced his hand down the plunge line of her dress and purred, “I’d suggest you get it out of your system tonight, because it could very well be months or even years before you get your dick wet again.”

Brion broke free of her grasp and rushed towards Violet. “I’d like to get going now, if you don’t mind.”

Violet stood up so fast her head spun. “I don’t mind.”

* * *

“I’m sorry you had to see—all that.” Brion said once they arrived at the hotel. They had driven there in silence that was occasionally punctuated by Violet’s phone buzzing with a text from Artemis. She had kicked out the women who’d been bothering Brion. Violet could only hope they hadn’t followed them to the hotel.

Violet stepped out of her flats; thankfully she hadn’t worn heels. She approached the sink, where she removed her makeup with the wipe the hotel had provided for that exact purpose. “You wanted to, right?”

Brion undid his tie and flung it on the bed. “Wanted to what?”

Violet swore only in situations that required it. This was one of them. “Fuck them. Be honest.”

“Of course not!” He exclaimed. “Even if we weren’t together, I wouldn’t even think of touching them. What’s got you so upset all of a sudden? Is it those girls? If so, don’t listen to them. They were drunk and didn’t know what they were saying. Or doing.”

Violet said the same thing she told her boss when he insisted her male coworker, who’d slapped her ass at last year’s company Christmas party, had been too drunk on whiskey-laced eggnog to know what he was doing. “Drunkenness is not an excuse.”

Brion sat on the foot of the bed. Violet had forgotten there was only one. “You’re right, it isn’t. I’m sorry. Violet, I’d never cheat on you, nor would I ever leave you for someone…”

“Prettier?” She suggested. “Someone who isn’t brown or Muslim?”

“I was gonna say different. And you should know by now that I couldn’t care less about the color of a person’s skin or the faith they practice; it’s what’s on the inside that counts.”

Her face free of makeup, Violet also sat on the bed, as far away from Brion as she could get without falling off of it. “At the hospital, when you had stepped out of the room, Dr. Jace said you eventually would. You know, leave me for someone else. I trusted her—”

“Don’t trust that bitch,” Brion snapped. It was the first time Violet heard him swear. Apparently he, too, swore only when necessary. “Don’t make the same mistake my family and I did. She can’t be trusted.”

“But when you and she were talking, you seemed like best friends…”

“To tell you the truth, the instant I saw her, I wanted to smash her face against the wall.” He said. “I should have requested another doctor, looking back on it. But I forced myself to smile and make nice with her because even though she’s a shitty person, she’s a good doctor. I’ll give her that much.

“I don’t trust her, haven’t for years, but I trusted that she wouldn’t harm someone I love. Turns out she did harm you, just not in the physical sense.”

With that he pulled Violet close to him and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I let the person I like the least tend to the person I love the most. Shouldn’t that be proof that I won’t leave you for someone else?”

Violet leaned into his touch, breathed in his cologne: Ralph Lauren, Polo Double Black, if she remembered correctly. His suit jacket was completely undone, the collared shirt he wore beneath it unbuttoned just enough that she could see his pectorals. She looked away; she no longer liked him solely for his looks, as fine as they were.

Next thing she knew, she was kissing him. He fell backwards, startled. The speed at which he fell caused his head to bounce off the mattress and bump against Violet’s.

“I love you, Brion,” She breathed into his mouth. “I love you for you.”

He kissed her back with a vigor the likes of which she hadn’t known existed. “I love you too, Violet.” He pulled back slightly to kiss the tip of her nose. “I love you for you.”

She unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way, peppering his chest with kisses. She was unfastening his belt when he grabbed her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Violet cocked her head. “Don’t you?”

“Well, yes, but…this isn’t because of what those women said, right?”

She shook her head. “No. Fuck them.”

“What about your toe? Dr. Jace said—”

“Fuck her too.”

Brion took the initiative this time, kissing her slowly and leaning into her until he had her pinned to the mattress. She squirmed beneath him, eager.

“Can I?” He later asked, once they had undressed each other. He was gesturing to her hijab. “Or would that be rude?”

She shrugged. “I got everything else off.”

“Good point.” He laughed before trying to pull it down like the hood of a sweatshirt only to find that it was held in place with multiple pins. “Um…”

“Here. Let me.” She removed it herself, placing it and the pins on the nightstand. She then freed her hair from the low bun she wore to ensure it was kept hidden. Her dark brown waves tumbled down her shoulders. Brion took a handful of it and held it between his fingers.

“Again, are you sure you want this?”

“I want this.” Violet said. Then: “I want you, Brion.”

He bent down to kiss her. “I want you, too.” His breath is warm on her bare skin; she shivers. “Violet.”

_So this is what it’s like._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from "it's strange" by louis the child!  
also, i compiled a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6TEqSizA4GHRpF3iZ4cQEN?si=WHSg6ekgQsOK3u9MlfDX0Q) of songs that remind me of this fic! the chapter titles even come from lyrics of some of the songs! :   
i'll put the link in the fic summary so it's easier to access!

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title comes from the jonas brothers' timeless classic "burnin' up," and the title of this chapter comes from the song "working for it" by ZHU, which I consider to be the ultimate stripper anthem!


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